


I Need You To Be My Ancient History

by DisposableVillain



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acting, Band, Burgers - Freeform, Cancer, Death, Familial Love, Freeverse, Ireland, Late Night Conversations, Lemon, Love, Memories, Memory, Mom - Freeform, Music, Myself - Freeform, Pancake Tuesday, Pancakes, Poems, Poetry, Ramblings, Slam Poetry, Sugar, Sweet, Thailand, The Waterboys, Transphobia, and i kind of like some of them, but oh well, content warnings, i just want to post these somewhere, idk - Freeform, lemon and sugar, performance piece, personal, slam poems, supermacs, the whole of the moon, there'll be like maybe an update every three months, trans man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:25:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposableVillain/pseuds/DisposableVillain
Summary: Just a bunch of poems that I wrote to get them out of my head. Content warnings will be at the top of each one. A lot of them are just me processing things that happened, some are commissions, some I made for something specific.





	1. Happenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all. I'm Elliot, for those of you who don't know me. I don't write poetry a lot, but when I do, I kind of want to post it places even if it's not very good. This poem was written before the Repeal the 8th referendum in Ireland, and it's essentially about needing the separation of church and state. Hope you like it.

**CW: R*pe, Magdalene laundries, miscarriage/fatal foetal abnormality, Church scandal, transphobia, murder**

* * *

 

Small land, small people,  
Ireland; the country small of mind.  
The mighty sit atop glowing pedestals  
Doused in white and glory,  
The grace of Grace, while the  
Rest - the heathens, the dirty -  
Don't matter.

A woman sits alone, greying sheets  
In hand; scrubbing crimson stains  
From her soul, they swear from above her  
Beads in hand as they take the  
Screaming infant from Rose called Bernadette,  
Never seen again. The same unmasked horror  
We scream at as they clutch for their next victims -  
A hospital - and we are told  
Nothing like that will happen again.

A man stands solitary,  
Hands clasping airy space where his wife used to be.  
They assure him he's in their prayers as we join him  
And insist that it's prayer that killed her.  
The thing inside her dead and killing  
But they insist all life is precious.  
Why did hers not matter, we yell,  
But we are told  
Nothing like that will happen again.

A child slumps against the wall  
Hands roaming over miles of skin,  
Face, neck, chest, lower, lower.  
It was just one, they say, or two at most.  
Our tears mix with the child's, but we are told  
Nothing like that will happen again.

Again, a woman lies in an alley, skirt up, knickers down  
Tears on her cheeks and blood on her thighs.  
Nothing like that will happen again.  
A man travels to Liverpool alone, his stomach swelled and  
Face red as the nurse sneers at the big, fat F on his ID.  
He never comes home.  
Nothing like that will happen again.

Spit in the face - Nothing.  
Murderer - Like that.  
Liar - Will.  
Be a good girl - Happen.  
Freak - Again.

Two sit, signs in hand.  
That's not fair, they roar.  
It's never fair when it's you, and not us.  
"Oppressed beyond measure," they say as man's greatest treasure  
But we sit. The people who don't matter.  
In the name of the father, the son, the holy spirit, no more.  
We won't let it happen again.


	2. Elysium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so yeah this was written in July 2017 for a story about a kid mourning his grandfather who died. It's mainly about the cycle of death tbh but take what you want from it.

**CW: Death**

* * *

 

Wrinkled arms held close  
A smile brightening dark eyes  
In a dark suit on a wooden bed with  
Satin sheets to soothe the entrance under   
Thanatos.

But the gods forget him as he   
Stares at the bed; the clock will ring and  
The sheets will draw, but never  
Pulled back to see  
Secrets locked behind blue lips;  
Laughter captive in glassy eyes.

Rosy cheeks turn to ghost and he  
Sits, waiting to meet his judge.


	3. Be A Big Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was about my grandmother telling me that I was killing my mother who had been diagnosed with cancer because I was trans. I currently can't remember if she actually said the words "you're killing her" but she heavily implied it and refused to acknowledge that she did it. I want to say that my relationship with my mom improved again afterwards though it was a bit strained because of how she reacted, and the same happened with my dad. My dad, it turned out, hadn't been told what happened. Six months ago, he found this poem and rang me in tears to apologise. My relationship with my gran has not improved.

**CW: Cancer, transphobia, death, gaslighting, manipulation**

* * *

 

Little things bother me.  
The pink that stained my bedroom wall   
For eight years. The long hair that tickled  
My neck, and shoulders, and back.   
The dresses I bought, each one a prayer that I would be  
Pretty, and comfortable, and me.  
It bothers me that I chose those things.  
No one forced, no one told me. I just wanted  
To be normal.  
Little things bother me. The shes and hers.  
The "But it's all just clothes! The section doesn't matter!"  
But it wasn't little, was it?

Sun streamed through the window, foliage  
Rushing past. A Thursday, but no uniform.  
It was a bad day.  
"You have to stop this."  
The flash of green froze to one tree.  
"She cried because of you."  
One branch.  
"You can't keep doing this."  
One leaf.

It was a bad day. Ivy crept up a garden wall,   
Infiltrating cracks like the thoughts did to my mind.  
I couldn't help it. I was getting better-  
"You have to stop. She has cancer.   
You're making it worse."  
A fly buzzed across the shield, stilling twice  
Only for a moment,  
A grain of sand in the hourglass. "I know this; I've read it.  
Stress can cause her to experience  
A stroke or a heart attack."  
The fly flew off.  
"You're killing her."

The second the car stops, everything is on  
Fast forward again. I'm allowed to be angry with her.  
But she starts crying. Yelling does that to her.  
An old trauma that I never knew, but that doesn't help  
The ivy clinging and thorns clawing.  
Oh, granny, what small eyes you have. Oh, granny, what small ears you have.  
But, oh granny, what big teeth you have.

"She attacked me, Helen." But where's the part about  
Her calling me a murderer?  
Oh right. She forgot to mention. Twice said, different times,  
But never remembered. Dad calls. Man up.  
Mom tries to talk to me. Please, apologise. For me.  
She can't bare the tension.

But she doesn't say anything. She just hugs me.   
No apology. Be a big boy, the bigger man.  
It gets to me. I'm conveniently recognised as a boy  
When I need to apologise. She can't even say the word, my gran.  
She can't look at me and say transgender.  
It's always, "This can wait. This... stuff."

"She's changing her name on Facebook to Elliot."  
I do it minutes after she's told. She doesn't say anything.  
But she doesn't say anything. Be a big boy.  
Man up.  
But how can I, when she won't even call me a boy.  
It hurts. It hurts to lose a granddaughter.  
But like this, she'll lose a grandson too.

Be a big boy. I have a right to be angry.  
Be the bigger man. I'm not a murderer for being who I am.  
Man up. It's the little things that bother me.  
Please, Elliot; for me. But it's the big things that will make me  
Disappear.

* * *

 


	4. The Torch - For My Mother Helen, 29/07/1970 - 17/12/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pretty much wrote this in one go the night my mom died, though I'd been debating the first stanza for a few weeks.

**CW: Cancer, death**

* * *

Paper thorns on ruby roses   
Icy thieves have come to steal  
Pristine gloves hide bloodied fingers  
Glass dyed red looks just as real

But the jewel is gone and left in its dust  
A mountain of shards sharp as the  
Words they screamed and pleas to help  
Though none could breach the ice

A smile draws the blinds   
White filters through, glinting off dust hanging in the air  
The fairy dust we can’t notice, because if we do  
It disappears, like always, and a hand squeezes another

Fire lit up a forest of green, bright heart  
Stolen by the same  
An unlocked door guarded that heart  
A poor defence for such as the gem that it was

And no amount of fairy dust can bring the gems back  
Or even fix the poor replacement left behind  
But a child’s eyes light up at the magic in the room  
And the smile, as bright as the heart,  
Warm.

And now she lays, porcelain and white,  
Bloody glass smashed by boots and heels of those who never noticed  
The rubies gone.  
Defences broken, and the forest mowed down

But the fire remains. It looks at the thieves  
And their riches. The fallen trees, the mystic breeze,  
And the tears for each one lost.  
And so it says  
Burn it  
Until the ashes burn too.


	5. Lucid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just a commission from a friend lol

**CW: Death, hospitals, implied self-harm, drinking**

* * *

 

Daises and roses beam from buckets,  
Adorned by watery crowns, stems cut,  
Life failing, but not yet.  
  
Her hand brushes them, eyes bright  
As the diamond droplets, smile warm  
As pink.  
  
We sat on the beach, and laughed  
Until our sides hurt, at things that  
No one else would find funny.  
  
A glass bottle of pink and gold  
A welcome solace from reality  
Anything to break the grey.  
  
Her smile was pink, and her eyes gold,  
And her lips red upon my own.  
  
We fell back in the sand and laughed  
As the grains tangled in her hair,  
The red sun setting her alight  
As her soul had done before.  
  
When we pass the buckets again,  
The daisies droop and roses weep,  
And her hands clasp the wheels  
White over black over white over black.  
  
The knife is silver, and the dash is red  
A welcome break   
Anything to break the grey  
And when she lies back, all white  
Hair tangled in the sheets, and a shot  
Of medicine in her hand;  
A bottle of bubbly  
Water and the florescent lights   
Dimming her,  
The sun sets  
  
And night arrives.

* * *

 


	6. Ruined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was brought on by a picture I found of my mom and dad. We were in Spain, going from Valencia to Torravieja, and we just stopped at these old castle runes on top of a sandy hill.

**CW: Implications of death and sickness?**

* * *

Golden grains glow under the  
sun in her eyes, hand a shade and  
glasses on her head, pinning up hair.  
Brown stones stand stacked, old and  
tired, grey in the shadows  
under her eyes, flecked with fire.  
The door burned black and away with   
dated flames.  
  
You can see the sea from here. It  
sparkles, white fairies dancing atop the waves,  
magic dust wound through her hair.  
Protect her. Flecks on stone   
white as her skin, cracked,  
she runs a hand over it.   
How old it must be.  
  
Sand sneaks into open-toed sandals,  
t-shirts stick to sweat-slicked chests,  
and we should go swimming later;   
it would be a pity   
not to use the pool  
when we’re here for so short a  
time.

 


	7. Mammy-Ring-A-Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to go to Doi Suthep with my mom a lot. I couldn't pronounce the name as a kid, so mom and dad used to call it Mammy-Ring-A-Bell because mom wanted to ring all of the bells. They left videos for me whenever they went away and had to leave me, and my favourite one was of mom ringing the bells because she just looked so happy.

Hot air fills the open red bus,  
dry in the throat. Pick up a bottle  
in a plastic bag, take a sip through a straw.  
Take the steps when the bus stops -  
there’s no point in not taking them  
when the experience is there  
waiting.  
  
Lines of silver bells wait,  
hung by thick ropes, all around   
white walls, pink-leaved trees,  
foggy mountain views.   
Ring it, go on. Just pull the rope.  
The ring echoes, brown eyes light.  
  
Wander the temple, shoes hanging  
from two fingers, left at steps   
to get inside, sleeves pulled down.  
Toes curled in away from the idol, walk on heels.  
Leave some money, go on.   
Strings line ceilings, and the Buddha smiles down.  
  
The fog clears - an hour before.  
Feet slap the tile as children run.  
Chanting fills the air, orange robes  
pace around the golden figure,  
dancing, weaving, stumbling, crawling,  
lying.  
  
Red paints the sky bloody,  
misty shroud lifted. A stream flows down a mountain.  
Lean over the edge, hands on stone,   
one leg holding the weight, one resting.  
Mammy, ring one more bell before we go,  
Mammy, ring a bell.  
  
The ring echoes through the empty temple.  
Shoes gone, night fallen,  
silver glistens on the velvet sky.  
Don’t take the stairs this time. It’s  
too much.  
The air is colder as the red bus winds   
back down the hill.


	8. Pancake Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a poem about pancakes and my mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on my mom who died a bit over a year ago. She always used to make a mountain of pancakes too high to eat on Pancake Tuesday and I used to sing with her as she did it. One of our most played songs was "The Whole of the Moon" by the Waterboys. It came on in Supermacs at 10 on Monday night and I hadn't heard it in months so it just reminded me of everything.

**CW: Brief mentions of death**

* * *

 

Crumbs scatter on the table.  
Laughs steam, knives scrape,  
a mountain of sweet sits  
and more is on the way.  
She stood and swung her hips,  
I danced around the table.  
“You were there in the turnstiles with the wind at your heels  
You stretched for the stars and you know how it feels.”  
She flipped a pancake off the grill,  
back to me, sun in her hair  
red.  
Lemon and sugar, as always,  
with a nice cup of coffee.  
  
A year after she went to sleep,  
I remember in line for a burger  
at 10 pm, Monday night.  
A song comes on, scratchy,   
echoes through the room.  
A girl with a mop and an apron sings along.  
“I wandered out in the world for years,  
But you just stayed in your room.  
I saw the crescent,  
You saw the whole of the moon.”  
  
I see her. Lying still in red and white.  
Whispers of how she looks better, lies,  
a wax model took her place.  
Another memory, at the sink,  
shaking the bottle of mixer  
to make more pancakes,  
lemon and sugar.  
Ones she’ll never get to taste.  
  
I don’t go out for pancakes with my friends.  
I whisper to the girl at the back,  
“Tell her it’s about yesterday.”  
The friend that held me,  
tears staining the shoulder of her jumper.  
I go home after class and  
climb into bed in the dark,  
a pack of Aldi buns at my side.  
I turn down the volume and listen  
to music with my eyes closed.  
“You know how it feels to reach too high  
Too far  
Too soon  
You saw the whole of the moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Please review if you liked it or have any tips on how to improve it.


	9. Mother's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poem I wrote on Mother's Day. I kind of took inspiration from Paul Durcan's Father's Day poem so oof yeah. Sorry.

I sit in my room with a blank screen  
staring up. The cursor blinks,   
taunting me, and I slam my fingers   
onto the keyboard  
too fed up to care.   
  
I keep going until my roommate calls me.   
"Your door's been closed for too long.   
Do you want to go for a walk?"  
I'm not even halfway there with my essay  
but it's sunny and I need a reason -  
any reason -  
to stop.   
  
The sun is white and cold on our backs  
as we walk along the sea.   
A child screams as his ice cream   
falls off the cone.  
Another falls off her skateboard   
and gets back up.   
And the sea glimmers with a vat of glitter  
mixed into its waters,   
staining it.   
  
On the way home, we get Thai  
and it's not the same,   
but it's a tourist restaurant,   
so I don't know what I expected.   
We walk with our backs to the sea through estates,   
the sun more gold than white now.   
Our shadows follow us,   
and a shower of leaves surrounds him  
and his boyfriend.   
  
I walk behind them and keep looking back  
until the sharp winds and blues of the sea  
is replaced   
by dead estate walls.


	10. Yellow Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk, I saw a yellow swing and this happened

There is a swing set  
out behind the wall -  
yellow and red and blue.   
The wind blows, leaves brush over it  
branches scrape metal.   
  
Next door, there is a clothes line  
full of pink and blue sheets,   
a little yellow dress.   
The lawn is neat and  
daffodils grow by the wall.   
  
The sun is out.   
Bushes grow out, into the swing,   
holding it close.   
A garden shed stands near it,   
old and worn, paint faded.   
The air is quiet, save the birds' songs,   
and the seat swings back and forth,   
its only rider  
a gust of wind.


End file.
